


on s'est laissé tomber

by inkyslumber



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: ???? i'm not sure if that last one is right i'm sorry, Character Study, M/M, No Dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-28 15:24:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19815088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkyslumber/pseuds/inkyslumber
Summary: (we let ourselves fall)





	1. je veux savoir à quoi tu penses

Crowley did not fall, so much as he had sauntered vaguely downwards.

There was talk among the other demons of who he had been before. His rank, his purpose, his very origins - hot topics among hotter sulphur, like gossip around the water cooler. Crowley had suffered through the talk until just after the beginning, and then promptly decided that he preferred Earth to Hell. No gossip, plenty of havoc to wreak, and a much-needed breath of fresh air. He had done his part and tempted Eve. The least he could be allowed was this escape.

No one expected the demon Crowley to go native.

He was quite consistently known as the demon Crowley, to the point where he wondered if he was the _Demon_ Crowley, a title in itself. And in 41 A.D. when the Principality Aziraphale asked him if he was still a demon, he scrapped the idea. Perhaps Aziraphale was not the Principality as well, merely himself in his own right. It had been over four thousand years since they had stood on the edge of Eden, and he reasoned that to take away Aziraphale’s title was just another small rebellion of his own. After all, he had fallen for how he had asked questions. A few more could hardly hurt. She hadn’t paid him any mind beyond how he had tempted Eve.

Crowley had, by that point, gone far beyond the charcoal that had once stained his wings. Black as night, he had once heard the colour called. He rather liked the imagery it had evoked. There was something intrinsically ominous about the night and the fears it cloaked. The greatest fear, he had found, was fear itself. A fear of the unknown, a fear of fear itself. And since he had long since embraced his status as a demon, Crowley such embraced the terror that came with who he was. He was no Death, but his wings were no good omen. Their very presence showed just what path he had taken, what lengths he had gone to in the past.

So after the Very First Day of the Rest of their Lives, he could not hide his confusion at the sight that met him. Crowley knew his wings. He knew them like he knew his scales, like he knew his shades, and like he knew his Bentley. Even his closet reflected the blackest black he could find. Yet in the light that streamed in from his balcony, the demon Crowley could have sworn that among his feathers rested one that was a shade lighter than the rest.

He was unnerved, to say the least.

When he had fallen, there had been no subtle change in his wings. The war had cast his brethren and sistren from Heaven straight to Hell. Among them, Crowley had fallen as well. (Too many questions, and not enough loyalty. He had simply wanted to _know_.) The sulphur had charred their feathers and burnt their skin. Some wore those scars like the battle-hardened warriors they were. Others, like Crowley, had performed what became demonic miracles and restored their visage with alterations that reflected who they had become. He healed his wings, and preened his blackened plumage. Crowley had work to do, after all. Mottled scales would only make his work harder, and his wings were a direct reflection of their beauty.

At least, that was what he had told himself.

In the week that followed, Crowley kept his wings obscured. He was not one to stretch them often. Even in the privacy of his own flat, he avoided the potential of such a clear reminder of where he stood to Her. He polished his Bentley, watered his house plants, and threatened to run the garbage disposal when he thought he saw a spot on one of them. They were lucky, he told them, that the spot had merely turned out to be a small dry leaf that had landed _just so_ on a much larger leaf. After all, they had a zero-tolerance household for such dangers.

One week turned into four, and that month turned into twelve. The anniversary of the End of the World was celebrated in St. James’s Park without much fuss. There was no sign of Death that day, and Aziraphale was in high spirits from his latest correspondence with Anathema.

Crowley did not tell his angel what he had found the day before. In nearly a year of ignorance, he was now certain that his feathers had lightened. Not to the charcoal that made even him nauseous, but to a shade that made him wonder if She had continued to watch him after all. No demon could lighten their wings and return them to the pristine glory that only those who had not fallen had. No demonic (or angelic, for that matter) miracle would ever earn that forgiveness.

Although, Aziraphale had forgiven him. On the Last Day of the World. Leave it to his angel to work a miracle of such proportions.

It would take many more years for his wings to reach that shade of charcoal he had not seen in over six thousand years, and a breakdown for Crowley to show Aziraphale just what had happened. And in a miracle that Crowley had not thought possible, the feathers that nauseated and taunted him with their very colour lightened just a smidgen more. He hadn’t cried, but if he had, it would not have shown behind his signature side-shield sunglasses. And, had he even sniffled, Aziraphale would not have heard it over the flutter of his wings. No, Crowley hadn’t cried. Nor had he agreed that She had any part in the change. Crowley fully credited his angel’s forgiveness.

He was not the demon Crowley anymore than he was the angel Crowley. His scales were just as comfortable as his wings. In any skin, he had a constant: the humanity he had learned.

He was simply Crowley, and he had gone native.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> been listening to caméléon by maître gims a lot!! titles are lyrics from the song.
> 
> just wanted to write a more introspective piece, and i recently binged good omens, so here we are. hopefully it isn't too confusing!


	2. y'a ces sentiments que tu déguises

The change in Aziraphale is not immediate.

Following the Very First Day of the Rest of their Lives, Aziraphale is content with the reassurance that Heaven will leave him alone, just as Hell will leave Crowley alone. He doesn’t ask how his own trial went, proud of his work in antagonising both Hell and Heaven in one go. He feels braver behind his mask of Crowley than he has ever felt, even more so than his days guarding the Eastern Gate as the Principality Aziraphale. Crowley’s indulgence of a meal at the Ritz the day before still leaves him full of a warmth he cannot place.

It is not a fear until that day that the Principality Aziraphale can go native.

Aziraphale is not a Principality to the humans he lives amongst and watches over. He is just A.Z. Fell, proprietor of a quaint (and dusty) bookshop that not many take interest in due to its stock. High prices and old volumes define his shop, many first editions only for display and admiration. He is possessive and proud of his collection. Though he will never say such aloud, or admit to anyone, Aziraphale considers them to be his closest thing to sin. (Crowley can never, _ever_ know.) His books easily surpass his appreciation for humanity’s culinary delights. His fellow angels do not understand either interests, and he no longer expects them to.

Still, Aziraphale has many reasons ready for why he takes an interest in first editions, and in unnecessarily eating. Sullying his celestial form, one might say of the latter. Any explanations are forgone when he realizes that offering food to any angels is the quickest way to remove their interest from the topic. The books remain a hot topic among the ranks of Heaven, however.

So he explains how humanity’s history is precious, how each prophetic work comes so close and yet strays so far. How he loves to study humanity’s works and admire the work Heaven has brought their influence to. Identifying and praising the subtle touches of his brethren and sistren. In time, his collection becomes more than what he states. His bookshop is a necessary cover, he tells them. His books are his subtle touches of his own, the right works influencing the right people on holier paths than they may find themselves on otherwise. He refers to his bookshop as his art, and his disguise.

Crowley, through the years, never fails to see right through him.

He is the first one to call Aziraphale out on his lies, and to see the falter in a smile that is otherwise ever present when he confronts him. This falter, so close to just after the beginning when he hands his sword off to Adam and Eve, gives him away. It is the first time in a long time that Aziraphale fears She may see right through him, watching him still with the sword he claims still to misplace when one asks. Crowley throws him off with every crossing of their paths. When they both settle in London, the pair become more routine. Aziraphale lets his guard down a little more. It is not enough, and Crowley removes another stone from the wall he has built.

A wall that is not unlike the one the Principality Aziraphale once held open for Adam and Eve. He leaves the Principality behind at the Eastern Gate, and seeks only to be the angel Aziraphale. To Crowley, he becomes “angel”. From his lips, it sounds right; there is no vitriol there. When his brethren and sistren visit, it is different. He never intends to tell Crowley that he understands his “vague saunter downward”, and swears to take such a thought to his discorporation and back.

On Crowley’s suggestion, Aziraphale is particularly careful with his new corporeal form. He celebrates in St. James’s Park on the anniversary of the End of the World with Crowley. His high spirits from Anathema’s latest letter detailing her memory of growing up a descendant of Agnes Nutter are only further buoyed by the praise he receives for maintaining a hold on his body. There is something he is not being told, but he trusts Crowley not to keep anything secret that would threaten their lives. Death does not show that day, and he goes home to the flat above his shop with a smile so genuine Crowley teases him that he’ll need to wear two pairs of shades to block out the light.

What are not light, however, are Aziraphale’s wings. He does not look at them until that day, a sharp and icy pain settling in his chest whenever he considers checking them. Now, he sees that they are more ashen than before. It is almost as though the ashes of his shop before recreation settle between the barbs of his feathers. He thanks Her that he and Crowley do not parade their wings even in private. Crowley will no doubt panic upon finding out, and Aziraphale cannot bear to hurt him so, or feed his ire towards Her. So he does not show him, and hopes that the colour of his wings will return. If She is punishing him, he thinks, he must deserve it.

He smiles on.

It takes many more years of ignoring the changing colour of his wings before he has no choice but to show Crowley. Aziraphale does his best to not openly gawk at the change in Crowley’s wings, and politely ignores the show of emotion that results. He thanks Her again, and wonders if perhaps back on the wall Crowley had been right all along. If Crowley had done the right thing, and Aziraphale had done the wrong thing. It isn’t funny at all, but if Aziraphale must grey for Crowley to grey as well, then he is alright with the state of things. It is his silence that concerns Crowley, and he caves to show him his own wings.

Crowley is angry, of course. He begins to rant and rave with the range of motion Aziraphale finds comfort in. With one hand he stops him, and assures him softly that if saving the world by Crowley’s side has such a price, he is fine with it. He has books with steeper prices in his shop, after all. In an otherwise silent desert, it is his partner that knows the words to say. From experience, he tells Aziraphale with a casual shrug.

He is no more the Principality Aziraphale, than he is the fallen Aziraphale. With Crowley, he walks a fine line on Earth, their chosen side. And, Aziraphale has what no other angel can offer Her: the humanity he continues to learn.

He is simply Aziraphale, and he has gone native.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's an old anime - haibane renmei - that comes back to me every once in a while. i thought of that quite a bit.
> 
> aziraphale's part managed to snowball into something all its own, but i hope the contrast to crowley's makes sense!!


End file.
